


Christmas at Hartfield

by boringmuse



Category: Emma (1996), Emma (TV 2009), Emma - Jane Austen
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Holidays, Jane Austen - Freeform, One Shot, Romance, ik this is kinda late for christmas but that's ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 01:59:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17235191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boringmuse/pseuds/boringmuse
Summary: Mr. Knightley comes to spend Christmas night with Emma and her father.





	Christmas at Hartfield

The village of Highbury was rather silent that evening, all the usual ruckus and banter dying down a bit for Christmas, which would be spent indoors and with family rather than at noisy street vendors or fêtes. This came as a source of gratification to dear Mr. Woodhouse, who would not have to worry during the couple of weeks preceding the holiday about receiving any calls from visitors; from all except Mr. Knightley, of course, who held the Woodhouse family in deepest regard, and who had come to Hartfield to share a dinner with them. He was still settling certain arrangements regarding his estate; until then, he could only maintain sporadic visits, which his new wife increasingly looked forward to. Presently, Emma was shaking his cold hand, amused by his flushed appearance. “Pray come in, George. You must be frozen.”

“Perhaps,” he smiled, sliding off his coat and kissing her cheek. “And yet upon seeing you, dearest Emma, I suddenly feel much warmer.” He noticed her father seated on one of the plush armchairs, a book resting in his hands. “Hello sir.”

“Ah— Mr. Knightley. I see you have arrived,” said Mr. Woodhouse. He lifted his head. “It is terribly cold outside, is it not?”

“Quite right, sir. Winter is in fullest bloom, and I am already looking forward to its departure.”

“As am I,” he sighed, looking outside. “It would be most distressing if one of us were to catch a cold. I am afraid such a prospect is too common in this dismal weather. Did you know, the Bateses were absent at church this morning? I am afraid they have caught the worst of it, those poor, poor women…”

“Oh, enough with such talk,” Emma interjected. “Come Papa, George, let us eat. I am absolutely starving.”

The servants were fetched to prepare the table, and the three of them settled into their seats. The candles cast ample light on the plates of glistening partridge and roast beef and pheasant; an abundance of meats and vegetables constituted the night’s menu, alongside various deserts such as mince pie and, Emma’s favorite, syllabub. “This is far too much food,” Mr. Woodhouse cried. “We are only three people; it is impossible that we shall be able to finish all this. And all the pudding!”

“Relax, Papa. It is Christmas, after all.” She looked over at her husband, who was restraining a smile. “How have you been?”

“Busy, I suppose. Though, my dealings with Donwell are nearly finished, which means I shall be able to move in soon.”

“Such excellent news,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “At last it feels like some company is being restored to Hartfield. Ah, but if only Isabella and the Westons could have been here! It does not feel quite the same.”

“The Westons are enjoying their time at Randalls,” Emma explained. “Surely, they are allowed to spend their holidays together, as a married couple.”

“And what of my daughter?”

Mr. Knightley cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, little George is sick, so John and Isabella were unable to make the trip here.”

 _George!_ Emma mouthed across the table, expressing her disapproval.

“Sick! Oh, dear God.” He had gone very pale. “Emma, did you know about this?”

Indeed she had; a missive had been received just yesterday apprising her of the situation, but, in hopes of preventing her father from worrying anymore than he already did, she’d hidden it from him and had devised a new excuse. Of course, she could count on her husband to let the cat out of the bag. “It is not so bad, Papa. Only a sniffle, I believe.”

“‘Only?’ Surely you must know, my love, that even the most benign symptoms can belie the most serious of afflictions. Mr. Perry himself told me so. What if the child _dies_?”

“Nonsense, sir. What Emma said is correct; the sickness is nothing extreme. Isabella has just been overly anxious, as she always is.”

“True. Her disposition matches yours, Father,”  nodded she in agreement, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Anyways, it is getting later by the minute. You may continue your endless fretting if you so wish, but I, for one, am going to enjoy this food.”

 

* * *

 

After the servants had collected the remaining dishes and empty bowls, the dinner party had retreated to the expansive drawing room. “You must play something for us, Emma,” Mr. Woodhouse requested of his daughter. Turning to Knightley, “She has been practicing more, you see.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I was not aware she had time for much else aside from making those silly matches of hers.”

“George, you know I have abandoned all of that!” she pouted.

“I know, I know,” he laughed. “And what a happy thing that is. Now, go play.”

“‘Plaisir d’amour,’” she said, walking up to the pianoforte. “By Jean-Paul-Égide Martini.” She brushed her fingers across the varnished surface, eventually letting them fall to the keys as she began striking the charming notes. She had started slowly, awkwardly, hands unsteady and unsure of where to go, but then she lifted her eyes, meeting her husband’s gentle ones. The candlelight produced a soft effect on his features; she was reminded of the Westons’ dinner party, where he’d been watching her just as intently as he was now. At the time, she’d attributed his watchfulness to the full regard of a close friend, but now, she knew it had been something else. As their gazes were met, her nerves calmed and she loosened up, finding more freedom in the piano keys, her feelings burying themselves into the song she played.

“That was wonderful,” Mr. Woodhouse applauded when she was finished. “Was it not, Mr. Knightley?”

He didn’t say anything; though he had no need to, for his beaming expression already conveyed the nature of his opinion.

 

* * *

 

The hypochondriac had retired to his bedchamber early; he feared that losing one hour of sleep would hinder him from carrying out his daily tasks the next day. That left the couple in the drawing room, where they were nestled on the couch in front of the fireplace, a knitted blanket thrown across their bodies. Emma, stature small compared to her husband’s, snuggled into his embrace, admiring the warmth of his body. He looked down at her with a pleasant smile. “You are radiant, Emma. Never have I felt more lucky than I do now.”

She exhaled slowly and closed her eyes, resting her head against his chest. “I only regret I had not realized my feelings earlier. To think I had been so disillusioned by that Frank Churchill!”

“Do not remind me of him,” Knightley sighed. “It brings me pain just to think about his— his trickery, his false affections for you…”

“I can say the same of Harriet Smith, my love, and Miss Bates. If only I had followed your guidance, they nor I would have ended up so hurt. I have done such a terrible thing!”

“But you have apologized now, and all is well,” he said calmly. “And I have forgiven you for your foolishness— though, I do hope it does not make a reappearance, and, if it does, be it rarely.”

“Actually, I was observing in church this morning— I know, such a thing is so wrong on Christmas day, but I could not resist— a certain look exchanged between Mr. Cross and Miss Adley,” she exclaimed. “It was quite telling.”

“Emma.” Knightley was cross; he briefly pulled away from her to cast her a frown.

“It was a joke, George. That is all,” she said, bursting into laughs. “If only you had seen the expression on your face. I have never met a Mr. Cross _or_ a Miss Adley.”

“How am I to know you are joking?”

“Because I am Mrs. Emma _Knightley_ now, not Miss Emma Woodhouse.” She leaned into him, fixing him with that signature mischievous look. “And, to tell the truth, the only person I can bring myself to think about these days is you.”

“Emma…”

She smiled and hushed his remaining words with a soft kiss, folding into him and feeling her heart reach her lips. Knightley gasped and returned the sentiment, bringing his warm arms around her body, pulling her into him completely; they extricated themselves several long moments later, flushed and burning, the both of their mouths swollen and faces donning a frazzled expression. He caressed her cheek shakily, whispering, “I love you— my God, I love you so much.”

Her bright eyes sparkled, passion and firelight dancing within them. “I love you too, and I shall never dream of a life without you in it,” she said, breathless.

His moonstruck face closed the distance between them once more as his lips met hers in a chaste kiss.

“My dearest, most beloved Emma.”

 


End file.
